Chastain looked from Ash to Della, then to Portly and Sycamore. He reached blindly behind him and half fell, half sat in the nearest wing chair.
“Lady Della holds my vowels?”
Della brandished a bouquet of IOUs. “All of them, every single one, including the two you just made out to Mrs. Tremont and Lady Tavistock, whom you will not so much as look at, ever again.”
Chastain’s gaze went from Portly to the door through which Mrs. Chastain had just passed. “I believe I shall be sick.”
Sycamore opened a window, tossed the contents of an ice bucket into the bushes, and passed it to Chastain. “A cheat, a fool, and an inebriate. One pities your wife.”
“Clarice will kill me.”
“Clarice,” Ash said, “did not make one stupid bet after another. Clarice did not bully Lady Della into a sham elopement that became an abduction in truth, complete with an attempted rape. Clarice did not harass Mrs. Tremont into granting favors that ought only be given freely. Clarice did not threaten to spread unkind gossip about Mrs. Fairchild’s daughter. Clarice did not paw at and bother Lady Wentwhistle’s maids.”
“And that litany,” Della added, “is only a summary of the damage you’ve done in the past month.”
Chastain tossed aside the ice bucket and pushed out of his chair. “It’s not my fault! I would never have been driven to that little escapade with Lady Della if Mama hadn’t forced me to offer for Clarice.”
Of course Chastain would be tiresome about even this. “You, not your mother,” Ash said, “came upon Lady Della in a bad moment. Instead of offering aid as a gentleman must, you took advantage of another’s distress. You mocked my wife, threatened her, belittled her, and tried to force yourself upon her. I ought to call you out.”
Real temper flared, the kind that could see Chastain measured for a shroud. Ash was tempted to have Sycamore drag Chastain out to the terrace, where anybody with a handy window could watch Ash reduce the baronet’s heir to a bloody pulp.
“Don’t show him any mercy on my account,” Della said, tucking the IOUs into her reticule. “The least he deserves is to be gelded. I will write your mother a detailed letter, Chastain. I will explain to her my problems with nervous anxiety and exactly how cruel you were.”
Della pulled the strings of her reticule closed with a decisive yank. “I will detail your debts and your behavior with the proper ladies and hapless servants at this house party. Lady Wentwhistle, if asked, will confirm my version of events, as will Mrs. Tremont, Lady Fairchild, and Lady Tavistock. Even Mr. Golding will likely have a few details to add about your unfounded allegations regarding the young marquess. I will explain to your dear mother how you have disgraced yourself on your very wedding journey.”
“You can’t,” Chastain said, gazing at Della as if she’d condemned him to swing at Newgate. “You cannot tell Mama. She’ll see me cut off without a farthing, and Clarice will have her pity, and this time Papa will not dare intervene. You simply cannot be so cruel.”
“That is not cruelty,” Ash said. Della’s plan to write Chastain’s mama a recounting of his crimes was pure genius. “That is simply putting truth into the hands of one who will use it to keep society safe from you. If you so much as stir from the family seat, Lady Della will bring criminal charges for kidnapping and attempted rape.”
“You’re a commoner,” Sycamore noted, “and your reputation among the people who work for a living at the various clubs, hells, and house parties is execrable. You cheat the trades, you cheat at cards, and you’ve already cheated on your wife. If I were your parents… well. One pities them.”
“One does not pity you,” Ash said. “You were born with every advantage, and all you’ve done is indulge yourself and prey on others. You would prefer being gelded to the fate I’d like to see you suffer.”
“Portly,”—Chastain backed away from Ash—“you cannot let them do this to me. You cannot stand idly by while I am ruined by a lot of gossiping women and their… their bully boys.”
Portly sighed. “Chastain, you brought this on yourself, and I tried to warn you. You are lucky Dorning hasn’t simply set upon you in a dark alley and left you to die among the rats. You are being shown clemency, though how you will explain this situation to Clarice, I do not know. We saw you palm that ace. Half the guests had to have seen you attempting to cheat, and only Lady Della’s quick thinking preserved your reputation from blackest disgrace. Make your apologies, and I’ll escort you and Clarice home at first light. Your parents won’t kill you as long as I’m underfoot to plead your case.”
“I don’t want to go home,” Chastain replied, a hysterical note creeping into his voice. “I hate the place, and nobody ever calls there but a lot of dreary, muddy squires and their horse-faced daughters. The maids are all crones, Mama will make me go services, and Clarice will drag me around to call on half the shire. I hate Tidemarsh.”
Della marched up to Chastain. “You’d best go with Portly, for between the Dornings and the Haddonfields, we will see to it that you will never again gamble in London. You will never again be admitted to a gentleman’s club, where you can prey on unsuspecting young fellows just down from university. You sought to sully the honor of widows, schoolboys, and those like myself, who suffer simple human failings. Be off with you.”
When Chastain simply stood before her, gaping and blinking, she served him a whacking good crack to his cheek, the sound particularly satisfying because it was followed by Chastain’s whimpering.
“You…” he said, his hand to his cheek. “You struck me. You slapped me. You…” He sniffed, he blinked, a tear rolled down his cheek. “Portly, see me to my room.”
Chastain tried to make a dash for the door, but Ash stepped in front of him. “What you tried to do to my wife was much more devastating than the single, well-deserved blow she just delivered. If I hear of you ever so much as glancing at another woman inappropriately, you will die slowly, painfully, and without the masculine organs you’ve indulged indiscriminately thus far.”
Sycamore came up on Chastain’s other side. “And if I hear that you are so much as playing Patience for farthing points with the footmen, I will take up where my brother leaves off, with compliments of Lady Tavistock and her step-son.”
Chastain looked as if he truly would be sick, while Ash was feeling, at least for the moment, quite in the pink.
“Take him away,” Ash said to Portly, “and see that he’s off the premises before sunrise.”
Portly nodded, took Chastain by the arm, and dragged him toward the door. “Come along, William. Clarice will be very disappointed in you, and you’d best reconcile yourself to doing a great deal of groveling over the next few years.”
“Years? Years, Portly?”
“Decades, if you are lucky, but one doesn’t hold out much hope you’ll live to see a peaceful old age.”
Sycamore closed the door behind them. “No, one doesn’t, but I just can’t seem to muster any sorrow when I contemplate a world without William Chastain in it.”
“Damn your skinny arse,” Ash said, crossing the library to drag Sycamore into a hug. “By God, Sycamore, you make a very fine second. The bit with the ice bucket was grand, and the list—you cheat at cards, you cheat the trades, you’ve already cheated on your wife—Drury Lane lost a fine actor when you decided to run the Coventry.” He scrubbed his knuckles over Cam’s crown for good measure, then let him go.